Simple Pleasures
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "She never wants this time with him to end." Jane and Oscar try for a second.


_**A/N** : This might just be the sappiest porn I've ever written. Please enjoy! :)_

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Anthony starts yawning at one-thirty, like clockwork.

Jane knows they should be weaning him off his afternoon naps by now, but right now, she is grateful for the continuing practice. She is grateful that she will have time alone with her husband while their child sleeps down the hall, blissful and unaware. She catches Oscar's eye and smiles at him from across the room, their not-so-secret secret agenda warming the air between them, turning every moment, every look, into something _more_. She can't remember being a teenager, but from the stories she's heard, she thinks this is what it must've felt like: every interaction heightened, every little feeling made potent.

She knows her husband must feel the same anticipation she does, for while he's been sitting still at the kitchen table for over an hour, she can tell his mind harbors the same preoccupations hers does. She's felt his eyes on her all day, watching her as they've gone about their business this Sunday. He's been doing his best to work, looking over files and floorplans from the office, but she knows where his head has really been; it's right where hers has been: back in bed. Back in that time before they had been so rudely interrupted by their son, who had run into their room just after dawn, demanding a day at the park because it was Sunday, and Sunday was Park Day.

Jane had given in to his demands partially because he was correct—they did have their Sunday ritual—but mostly because she had been on top of her husband when their son had burst into the room, and saying yes was the quickest way to get him out before he noticed something was happening under the sheets.

Anthony had left, yelling in triumph as he dashed to the front door, and Oscar had tried to pull Jane back into it, tried to finish, but she'd shaken her head. _We have to go_ , she told him. _We wait even a minute, he'll come running back in here._ She was right, of course, they both knew this, but his hands had been insistent. His voice at her ear, whining, _Please baby, real quick;_ his mouth on her neck, claiming her skin as his.

She had closed her eyes, trying not to give in, trying to stay sensible. Their son was waiting for them by the door. If they wasted another second... She squeezed Oscar's shoulder, and somehow managed to pull away. _Tire him out at the park,_ she instructed. _Then he'll go out like a light after lunch_.

A knowing smile had spread across her husband's face. _And then we'll make up for this?_ he asked, and he didn't need to wait to hear her answer—he could see it in her returning grin, in the excitement in her eyes. He lay lazily back in bed, watching as she moved around the room getting dressed, and he only followed suit when Anthony came careening back into the room, demanding to know why his papa wasn't ready yet.

Now, hours later and late in the afternoon, Jane can still feel her husband's eyes on her, can still see that old look. Her face heats at the blatant implication in his gaze; her heart moves to the beat of what she knows he is imagining when he lets his mind wander. But she forces herself to focus on their son first. He is yawning again, his whole body moving with the effort to expel breath.

She smiles at his exertion, and comes to sit beside him on the floor.

"Tired, hon?" she asks, cupping the back of his head.

He shakes his head, obstinate as ever. A trait to be expected, given his parentage. "Not tired, Mama, " he protests proudly.

He makes a show of playing with his blocks for a few minutes before eventually succumbing to what he cannot control. After his eyes fall closed, his little body tips back against the couch, and his chin nods down into his chest. He is an infant and an old man all rolled into one, and Jane smiles as she scoops him up gently into her arms. His weight is heavy—he is getting old; she feels it like a pang in her gut, a pull in her heart. He is a toddler still, but not for much longer.

Soon he will be too old for naps; soon he will be too old for carrying. In a number of years he won't run to her when she comes home from work, yelling _Mama!_ as excitedly as if she were Santa on Christmas morning. Jane closes her eyes, ducking her nose into her son's head, inhaling his scent. He still smells fresh, like a much younger boy, almost like a baby.

Or maybe she is only imagining it.

She turns and finds her husband watching her. He is still sitting at the kitchen table, but all pretense of work is gone now. He is sitting back in his chair, pen discarded, and she can see a warm light in his eye—though if it is for his child she holds now, or the one they are trying to bring into existence, she can't be sure.

She pulls away from his gaze slowly, and leaves the room to lay Anthony down in his bed. He'll sleep for an hour, maybe an hour and a half, and she and Oscar will have all that time to themselves. Jane bends down to press a kiss to the top of her son's head, resting her nose against his hair. It is the same shade as his father's—that beautiful dark brown—and it makes her wonder if their next child will share the same trait. She smiles to herself at the thought. She could do with another baby boy just like Anthony.

Oscar is waiting for her in the hall when she returns from their son's bedroom. He's got one elbow held out at a cocked angle to her, like some sort of formal escort from earlier times. She tilts her head at the odd ceremony, a smile flickering on the edges of her lips.

"What's this?" she asks with a laugh, pulling Ant's door shut quietly behind her.

"Can't a husband escort his wife to bed?"

Amusement flickers on her face—and a touch of embarrassment, too.

"You're being silly," she whispers in admonishment, but she takes his arm nonetheless, and lets him lead her through the apartment.

He walks slowly, slower than she expected, and she tamps down the desire to run. She wants him now, as potently as she did this morning, if not more so. Their day at the park had, in the end, done little to quell her desire for him. This last hour, trapped at home and distracted, so close to him and yet unable to touch him as she wanted to, has been nothing short of torture.

He opens the door to their bedroom and ushers her inside, letting her go so he can close it. In her head, she imagines the accompanying click of the lock, as if this were some kind of secret tryst. As if this were the dark of night, and not the middle of a Sunday afternoon. As if she were stealing away moments with a secret lover and not her legal husband of nearly five years.

She smiles at him as he approaches her—he still is that, sometimes, in certain lights, on certain nights: her secret lover. He is the one she met in the dark emptiness of so many evenings; he is the one she hid from her friends and colleagues; he is the one she loved so much she risked everything to visit, to save, despite the seeming futility. He is the one whose hand she held tight in interrogation, as they spent weeks being interviewed after coming forward with their secrets and their mission. He is the one that got the dark looks from her former colleagues; she is the one that stood by his side throughout it all.

He is the one.

He is hers.

She turns to him at the foot of the bed and pulls him close for a kiss. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she burrows her fingertips into his thick hair, sighing as he cups the small of her back to bring her closer. She can taste his tongue when he slips it into her mouth, and pushes closer instinctively, pressing herself eagerly into him.

This is not the first time they've tried—they've been trying for months now—but she has a special feeling about today. After the way they were stymied this morning, after waiting all afternoon… Surely the coiled want in them is powerful enough to produce a baby. Surely their desire for each other can cause an explosion of human life.

She pulls away from his mouth, and when he dives forward for another kiss, she pushes him off. He tries again, only to be rebuffed once more. He growls in frustration, but she pushes him back, onto the bed, and then steps away out of his reach. When she lifts her hands to pull off her shirt, and the frustration in his expression melts to pure desire. With every inch she bares, his eyes grow wilder, his mouth dryer. One might think he has never seen her naked before, never been inside her before.

When she's finished undressing, she stands there in her underwear before him. It's a perfect pairing, and a pairing he likes, too: a deep navy blue, lacey, provocative. She wore it for him on purpose, after the way they were foiled this morning, and he is grateful, knowing this. He gets to his feet and takes a step towards her, and when she doesn't step back, finished teasing him now, he lifts a hand, cupping her breast. He smiles when he brushes his thumb gently against the curve. He can feel her nipple already, hard through the fabric.

"Beautiful," he whispers.

He bends down to press a kiss to the protrusion, and she smiles, running a hand through his hair.

His other hand slips between her legs, and she makes a small noise—of desire, of surprise—as he rubs his fingers against her through the fabric.

"Mine," he whispers, almost a growl, and she closes her eyes with a sigh.

She reaches for him, too, unzipping his pants with practiced swiftness and sinking her hands beneath the surface. She closes her fingers around him, stroking with the right amount of pressure that he bows his head to her shoulder in seconds.

"Mine," she whispers back, triumphant.

"Always," he promises. His breath is hot and warm against the skin of her shoulder. "Always yours."

After he kicks off his pants, he gathers her in his arms and lifts her up. He carries her the few feet to bed, and then lays her down gently, as if she is fragile. She is, in a way—in his mind. She knows he is already imagining her pregnant. She knows he is often imagining her pregnant.

She smiles as he crawls atop her, lifting her hands to remove his shirt, pulling it over his head and then tossing it across the room. He dips his head down to kiss her, slow and soft, as he takes off her underwear. She lifts a hand to touch his face, skimming her fingertips along the smooth, clean-shaven skin of his cheek. She can feel the beginning of stubble there, the finest scratch. She pulses for him between her legs, imagining feeling him there, against her thighs.

"I want another baby," she tells him. She touches the dip of his chin with her thumb. A smile teases on her lips. "How about you, hm? Do _you_ want another baby?"

A grin spreads wide over his face as he nods, laughter just beneath the surface. "I want as many as you will give me," he whispers. He presses his forehead down hard against hers. "As many as you can _stand_."

"Not too many," she dissuades gently. She whispers the words carefully, not wanting to curb the enthusiasm he feels, but not able, either, to lead him on with such unrealistic expectations.

His immediate nod of understanding—and his so-bright smile, still in place—clears her of any lingering worries. She may not be able to give him everything he wants, but what she can give him he will take gladly and without complaint, and for that she is indescribably grateful.

He is not being facetious where children are concerned, she knows. If they could, he would eagerly have six children with her. Ten. Twelve. He truly does want to be surrounded by them. This second baby they are trying for—he wanted it for years and years before she ever began expressing an interest.

She kisses him gently in silent thanks, and then rolls them over until she's on top.

He presses himself up into her once he's flat on his back and she lifts up, rising to take him in. There is nothing between them anymore—not birth control, not a condom, nothing. It is just her skin enveloping his.

Her breath hisses through her teeth as she takes him in; with all the mental anticipation, they had not bothered with foreplay. She is too tight around him, ready but not quite, and he lifts his hands to her, helping. His skims his fingertips lightly against her stomach, making her laugh, and then travels up her chest. One hand cups her waist as the other travels to her breasts, weighing and teasing.

She rolls her hips into him hard, crying out softly when he pinches her nipple through the lacey bra. Her hand flies to his chest, steadying herself. His body is solid beneath his skin, expertly muscled as usual. He may not be a renegade Marine anymore, but he keeps himself in fighting shape nonetheless, and she likes that. She brings her other hand to his chest, and drags them both down the length of his body slowly, feeling him. His abdomen is like hardened steel beneath her, like iron. She pushes down against him on a whim, as if to test. He does not budge an inch; he does not even flinch. She is proud of his strength. Possessive of it, even.

"It's all for you."

His whisper reminds her that he is watching. She looks up.

"Everything I am is for you." His hand rises from her breast to cup her cheek. His face softens. "You know that, don't you, sweetheart?" he whispers. "You know that I exist for you. For our family."

She bends low, nuzzling her nose against into his. "I know that you are mine," she whispers, "just as I am yours."

She kisses him slowly on the lips, and then braces her hands against his chest to start moving. She rises above him and watches his eyes fall closed, watches his face tighten in pleasure.

"Look at me," she tells him.

With some difficulty, he opens his eyes.

"Watch me," she breathes.

"Jane…" He knows what she's going to do.

She shushes him, lifting her hands to cup her breasts as she begins to ride him. They are still enclosed within the navy lace, and he moans as he watches her touch herself through her clothes. He can see her nipples, hard and firm, poking through the flimsy lace. He watches her pull on one, twisting gently, and groans along with her.

"Fuck, Janie…"

"Do you like this, honey?" Her voice has lowered further than usual: it's smoky, sexy. It's a show, one he's very fond of. "Do you like to watch me do this? Do you like watching your wife touch herself while you're inside her?"

"No," he grunts, holding fast onto her hips. But she grins: the hard heat of him inside her betrays the truth. "That's my job," he mutters, almost bitterly.

She laughs. "Not everything is your job, dear husband."

"Pleasuring my wife sure as hell is."

She barely has time to laugh again—he's tightened his hold on her hips, rolled them over, flipped her flat on her back. All she has time to do is gasp before he his kissing her hard, and pushing himself into her even harder.

Her hands come up to cup the back of his neck, to pull on his hair in appreciation as she cries out for more. It worked—it always does with him. She gasps out a triumphant laugh as his mouth leaves hers, hot and hungry and in search of other treats. He is so easy to manipulate sometimes, this man with a spine as straight and strong as steel. Once she gets him to the right temperature he melts, bending beneath her hands.

He plasters kisses in a haphazard pattern down her chest, pushing himself inside her all the while, fueling the little noises of want and impatience that escape from deep in her throat. She may be able to reduce him to his base parts, but he can reduce her, too.

" _Ung_!" she groans aloud in pleasure when he takes her nipple into his mouth, and bites it through the fabric.

"Mm," he murmurs, blowing on it, making her writhe. "You like that, do you? Huh, Janie? You like it when I touch you with your clothes still on."

She whimpers his name, and he switches to the other breast, nibbling there too. All the while, he pushes into her, deep and hot, and she rocks beneath him, begging for more, wrapping her legs and arms around him. He longs for the day when she will be too pregnant for them to make love like this; he hopes for the day when her breasts will be so sensitive she will not allow him to touch them, let alone put his mouth on them. He yearns to see her holding their newborn baby, inviting him once more to come meet his new child.

He returns his mouth to hers, and picks up the pace. Her nails are digging into the back of his shoulders now, and he knows what that means.

"I want this baby," she gasps.

He can feel her vagina starting to constrict around him. He isn't far off, either.

"I want this baby, Oscar. Give me this baby, honey."

"I am," he bites out, panting now, driving into her too fast for speech. "I will. I am, Jane, I swear."

"Come on, honey." Her hands are in his hair, pulling so hard his scalp hurts. "Give it to me. Give me what I want."

"I am," he gasps out. "I'm giving it to you. Right now, right—"

"More. Faster. _Fuck me, oh God—_ "

Their twin cries explode in the air, unchecked, as his body bursts and feeds hers, and she jerks beneath him with a high-pitched moan of pleasure. He sinks into her immediately, depleted, and she holds his bigger, sweaty body close. He groans, exhausted, his breath hot against her neck as he attempts to suck in air.

"Good man," she gasps, rubbing his back, hugging him tight to her. "Oh, what a good man."

He chuckles once, hardly able to get air. "Glad to be of service."

They both fall into laugher then, uncontrollable, almost hysterical, as they hold one another and come down from their orgasms. After, when they roll apart and lie side by side, they take turns fussing over the other: tucking hair back into place, brushing the sweat off foreheads, kissing lips.

As she knew he eventually would, he ends up moving, lying down so his head is pressed up close against the side of her stomach. He presses kisses there, caressing the flatness of her stomach reverently, as if there were already a baby there to worship and dote over. To protect.

Lazily, she brushes a hand through his thick hair. It needs cutting, she thinks, but it is so soft between her fingertips, and the long length reminds her so much of when they were young, that she doesn't mention a single alteration.

"Do you have any names in mind?"

The question comes from him, and she turns her head, surprised. "Names? Oscar, I'm not even pregnant yet."

He waves a dismissive hand, as if their new baby is an inevitability. Her heart swells for him at his certainty. His optimism has carried them through more terrors than she likes to remember, and she is so grateful for it.

"I named Ant," he reminds her. "It's your turn."

"Hm..." She continues running her hand through his hair, smiling at the idea of a tradeoff. She wonders if, after this next one, she will ever name another baby. Will they ever get to four, or more? Does she even want to? Sometimes it's hard to remember the strains of reality in the aftermath of so much pleasure.

"I don't know," she says finally, answering his question. "I don't have anyone to name a baby after."

"Well, we don't have to name this one after anyone, Jane. Just pick a name you like."

"I like your name," she says, touching his ear. "Oscar." She traces the edge of it and smiles. "What do you think? We could have an Oscar, Jr."

He makes a face, shaking his head in distaste as he lifts himself up to her eye level. "No, my name's no good. And I hate juniors. Let the kid be his own man. Or woman," he adds.

She smiles at the idea of a girl. For all the trying they've been doing, she hasn't often stopped to think of the sex of the baby they're hoping for. Whenever she pictured the new baby, it was always a variation of her firstborn: a bigger, healthier version, yes, but always a son. That little detail has never changed in her mind, and now she wonders why.

"Would you like that?" she asks Oscar softly. "A daughter?"

He shrugs, but even his nonchalance gives him away.

"I'd like anything you'll give me," he whispers.

"So easy to please, my husband."

"So generous, my wife."

She murmurs in appreciation, nuzzling her nose against his. It's been nearly five years, and yet she never tires of hearing him call her that. She thought that after some point the title would become nothing but: a title. Mundane. Trite. She thought, years down the line, surely the word would mean little to her anymore. But the sound of him saying it now still makes her heart surge to the top of her chest, just like it did on their wedding day.

She drops her head from his, curling downward until she's nested against his chest. She can feel the damp sheen of sweat still on his skin, born out of their exertion. She moves closer, and closes her eyes only after he's wrapped his arms around her.

"Do you think it worked?" she whispers after a while, warm and safe within the circle of his arms.

"I don't know," he murmurs. He pauses to cover his mouth, yawning. Then he bends his head down to hers. "Why?" he whispers, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "Want to try again just in case?"

She laughs, tipping her head back to look up at him. He is grinning down at her, so happy, and as they rest there together in the aftermath of what she hopes is creation, she thinks that she never wants this time with him to end. She wants to be trying for a new baby always; she wants to see this happy hope in his eyes forever. Maybe, she thinks, she _could_ have six children. Ten. Twelve. Maybe she could do anything, so long as he stayed right here with her through it all.

"I love you so much, Oscar," she whispers, and though her voice cracks a little, he smiles at the familiar words, bending forward until he can kiss her.

"Love you back," he whispers as he pulls away. "With all of me."

"Every last bit?"

"Every last bit."

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 _ **A/N** : If you have thoughts on all this gooey sap, a review would be lovely! X)_


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